


Plant-Based

by kashinoha



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Churches, Footnotes, Humor, I'm out of practice so go easy please, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), This is the first thing I've written in two years, allergic reactions, someone talk to me about these dorks, typical British snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: In which Crowley has a violent disagreement with something he cannot see, the Antichrist attends a wedding, and Aziraphale finds himself yet again contemplating the Almighty's sense of humor.





	Plant-Based

**Plant-Based**

 

All characters © Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

 

 

It was a perfect day in Tadfield, which meant that it was an ordinary day, because all of the days in Tadfield were perfect.

On this perfectly ordinary day, Newton Pulsifer and Anathema Device were getting married. It was merriment all around, even for those who were not usually inclined to be merry. The only reason Crowley agreed to attend, in fact, was because having a pubescent Antichrist at one’s wedding meant things would be particularly auspicious.

Indeed; the DJ found he could only play Netta’s _Nana Banana_ and _Uptown Funk,_ and the hors d’oeuvres had been mysteriously replaced by gummy worms. At least Adam had outgrown his whoopie cushion phase (much to Crowley's disappointment).

Aziraphale admired the acoustics of the sanctuary as the processional began. They were the kind of acoustics that could make even the most tone-deaf of angels sound, well, angelic.1 At some point the light fixtures haloing the dais had been turned into little whale replicas, and a lovely satin dog bed had manifested itself by the punch. Aziraphale's appreciation of Pachelbel was momentarily disturbed by a Device cousin making a hurried effort to change her seat. He frowned.

“I swear, if that General Shadwell asks another poor lady how many nipples she has I might just miracle _him_ a third one,” he huffed. Beside him, Crowley snorted.

“Glad to see you're not above petty shits and giggles.”

Aziraphale threw a rather unsubtle look at Crowley, who was leafing through a guest pamphlet with ease. Too much ease for a demon in a holy place, in his opinion. “I thought churches made you twitchy,” he said. “You know, consecrated ground and all that.”

Crowley replied without looking up, “Yes but the _chairs_ haven’t been consecrated, Angel. Peoples’ bottoms have been on them long enough to befoul even the purest of pews.”

The ceremony began shortly thereafter, complete with the kinds of childhood narratives that made one squirm with mild second-hand embarrassment. Or perhaps those were just the gummy worms.

It was sometime later that a movement to his left distracted Aziraphale from a most amusing story of Newt’s fourth grade science project—a mini apocalypse of its own, by the sounds of it. Crowley had lifted the rim of one tinted lens and was delicately rubbing at the corner of his eye.

“Getting sentimental, are we, dear?”

Crowley's lip curled. “Hardly,” he answered. “Something in my eye, is all.”

At the dais Anathema was recounting the occasion of how she came across Newt, which most of the guests save but a few seemed to interpret as an elaborate metaphor for something more intimate. Suddenly, End Times seemed a little more romantic, although for the love of Heaven Aziraphale could not fathom how a military air base could be a euphemism for anything other than…a military air base.  

Crowley, Aziraphale noticed with some concern, had continued to rub under his glasses throughout the ceremony. When Aziraphale chanced a look over at his colleague he saw that Crowley’s yellow, slitted eyes were watering. Obviously, a little more than sentiment.

“You know,” he whispered, “if something in this church is bothering you, we can always leave.”

“Says the angel who can’t vacate a restaurant unless every chair is pushed in and he’s thanked all the help,” muttered Crowley, rolling his eyes. “Relax. It’s probably the incense or whatnot. Nothing to fret about.”

“I wasn’t fretting.”

“I mean, if you were going to fret about something.” A nearby relative gave them a dirty look (which Crowley returned with a saccharine smile wide enough to show just the right amount of incisor). Then he coughed.

“Come to think of it, I seem to recall Newton’s mother bringing in some fragrant incense and candles for the ceremony,” Aziraphale continued, in what he hoped was a quieter tone. “Smelled rather purifying. Claimed they were vegan, or soy, or something like that.”

At this Crowley’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to look at Aziraphale. _“Vegan?_ How can incense be _vegan?_ It’s plant-based, so…” Crowley trailed off, clearing his throat. “Well, all incense is technically vegan by default, isn't it?”

“Maybe she was talking about the candles. You know, no animal fat or yak butter lamps.”2

“Suppose so.” Crowley sighed and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Makes a great mosquito repellent, if you ask me.”

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips gave a barely perceptible twitch, and he quickly got ahold of himself. Never mind their chatting; it would be downright rude to laugh in a church.3

“You’ll tell me if you get too uncomfortable, won’t you, Crowley?”

“’Course,” Crowley replied absently, wrinkling his nose again.

After that Aziraphale took delight in counting the stained-glass windows, though all the while keeping an eye peeled—figuratively, since that was more a demonic pastime than an angelic one—for Crowley. Not that he was fretting, or anything. 

Said demon had begun to wriggle and scrunch his nose back and forth, as if trying to rid it of irritation. It was only when Aziraphale noticed his breath hitching that he decided to say something.

“Crowley,” he whispered. “Are you sur—”

_“Hngxt!”_

Aziraphale had lived amongst humans long enough to recognize a sneeze when he heard one, of course, but never had he in all his millennia of living seen such a thing come from Crowley. It was quite astonishing.

“Are you alright?” he asked, alarmed. Crowley glanced over at him, nose still pinched shut between his fingers, with a look that clearly said (well, clearly to approximately no one except Aziraphale), _do I fucking_ look _alright to you?_

“A silly question, yes,” Aziraphale answered aloud. “Whatever Mrs Pulsifer’s incense is seems to be holy in natu—”

“H-ngxt! Ngxt! Hih- _ncht!_ …H- _NGXT!”_

Aziraphale winced. “Good heavens! _Bless,_ Crowley.”

Crowley gave a snarl, as if the very act of blessing him would set him aflame. They had begun to attract a few looks from family and friends, much to Crowley’s embarrassment. Aziraphale quickly extracted a square piece of muslin from his pocket and thrust it into Crowley’s hands. Crowley stared down at it like it was going to eat him.

“I’ve heard it helps,” Aziraphale supplied, gesturing to the demon’s face. “Your nose is quite pink, dear.”

Crowley squinted at the cloth. “Isn’t this the handkerchief that Louie the Fourteenth gave you?” he asked, momentarily distracted. “And what, you want me to sully it with bodily fluids?”4

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Crowley. We have washing machines now.” His gaze softened when he saw that Crowley had begun to sneeze relentlessly again, bent over the pew and trying to muffle the sounds into his jacket.

He reached over and touched the demon’s elbow. “Come,” he said gently. “You are not going to be able to stop unless we get you out of here.”

“And you’re okay with mi— _hii_ ssing the vows?” Crowley said, holding a finger under his nose to suppress another bout of sneezing. “’Know you like that sort of thing.”

“A lovely sentiment, but I could hardly enjoy holy matrimony when my demon is suffering beside me.”

“Softie,” Crowley grumbled, ironically, as he let Aziraphale lead him out of the church. Truth be told, he was starting to get annoyed at his nose. What had it ever done to deserve such assail?

Once they were outside Crowley began sneezing in earnest, so hard in fact that Aziraphale had to miracle his sunglasses off and into a safe compartment of the Bentley. The demon was forced to use King Louie’s precious handkerchief, his sharp features now marred by swollen, streaming eyes.

Aziraphale blinked at the sorry state before him. “Goodness, this has gotten you all out of sorts!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Tickety-boo,” Crowley groaned. He straightened up and sniffed once, hard. “Okay, I’m done. Shit. Let’s not do that again, yeah?”

“I can’t imagine it was much fun,” Aziraphale agreed. When it came to mortal foils foiling a celestial body, the Almighty tended to get a tad whimsical. The weaknesses of angels were lesser known, but included infernal flames, pentagrams, large quantities of sulfur, and Furbies. Pentagrams in particular had Aziraphale feeling chilly and weak all over.

“Reminds me of the time you fainted at Black Sabbath on the Brocken,” mused Crowley, as if reading the angel’s mind. He would give a sneeze here and there throughout the rest of the day, and by the next he would be completely hunky-dory and able to deny this little mishap ever happened at all. “Where did you put my sunglasses?” he asked Aziraphale.

“They’re in the glove compartment.”

Crowley wiped some of the allergic tears from his eyes. “She let you?”

“After I gave her that cinnamon-scented air freshener she’s been quite taken with me, I’m afraid.”

“Hm. So that’s why she won’t go over eighty when you’re in the car. Ugh,” Crowley ran a hand through his hair with a grimace, “at least cinnamon doesn’t make me sneeze my head off. _Satan,_ that was unpleasant.”

“I—I wasn’t aware demons _could_ sneeze,” Aziraphale pointed out. A thought came to him then. “Do you suppose angels can as well?”

“Who knows, with corporeal bodies?” Crowley wondered. He’d used a minor miracle to clean up his face, already looking loads better than he had just a moment ago. “I wouldn’t put it past the Almighty to throw in a couple of design flaws. Seems like her sense of humor, if you ask me."

Aziraphale's eye twitched, because Crowley wasn't exactly wrong. “Has this kind of thing happened before?” he asked.

“Once or twice, maybe, but never this bad,” Crowley answered. “I don't normally make a habit of visiting churches, but there was,” he waved his hand, “that thing with the Pope that one time. And for the record, the whole ‘bless you’ thing? Just no…don’t.”

“Well you can’t very well expect me to say ‘damn you,’” Aziraphale pointed out, looking miffed.

Crowley smirked.

“I mean—I just—not _now_ —” Aziraphale floundered. He shook his head. “You are insufferable, do you know that?”

“More like _insencitive,”_ replied Crowley, amused.

“And you say I’m the one who has the terrible puns. Though it appears you _are_ quite sensitive, which is curious.” Aziraphale tapped his chin and continued, “Salt and crosses pose no problem for you, but church censers?”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s the intent, angel. It’s always about the intent. Or something equally ineffable.”

“Ah.” They were both rather familiar with the ineffable.

Crowley cleared his throat. “By the way,” he began, “thanks for, eh, you know.” He waved the handkerchief.

Aziraphale sighed. It was the type of sigh that perfectly mixed fond and concerned. He had gotten very good at it in the last few decades (apocalypse shenanigans, as well as Crowley’s general…Crowley-ness will do that to a celestial being). “Newton and Anathema are going to wonder why we left in such a flurry,” he said. 

“We’ll make it up to them with a reallllyy big bottle of wine,” Crowley reassured him. “And maybe a bamboo tree. Or your translation of the Voynich manuscript.”5

“My Voynich translations? I wasn’t aware that sternutation during a wedding ceremony was such an egregious offense,” Aziraphale said, with a wry smile.

“Any bodily function at a wedding ceremony is utterly revolting,” Crowley argued, making a face. He briefly considered. “Unintentional ones, that is.”6

“Yes, well, lucky I had that pocket square on me, dear,” Aziraphale said. “They are quite useful, especially in the happenstance you and a divine substance have another… _disagreement.”_

As it turned out, the  _pièce de résistance_ in Mrs Pulsifer’s holy incense and candles that had so violently disagreed with Crowley had been purifying American white sage. Which was forty-eight percent vegan, one percent oxymoron, and fifty-one percent culturally appropriative, according to the Almighty. Not exactly divine, but just pure enough to cause a demon distress.

Crowley may or may not have miracled a small bonsai tree into Jasmine Cottage later that week. Because he did not feel _bad,_  excuse you; he simply liked to flaunt his own ideas of what was acceptably _plant-based._ Presently, he lurched to the side with a single sneeze and shook his head.

“Bless—I mean, ah, damn—” Aziraphale floundered, then decided to do what most Englishmen did and use German. “Gesundheit.”

Crowley threw him a grateful “You Tried” look as he dabbed at his nose with the 'kerchief. Even when the angel failed spectacularly at things, he never failed to endear Crowley. Again, it was all about the intent.

“Hey Aziraphale,” Crowley said from behind him as they made their way toward his car, his tone full of wonder. Which was a bit sinister, coming from a demon who had been around for six thousand years. “Did you know that celestial snot happens to be the _exact_ color of—”

“No I do _not_ know, and I shall think I do not ever want to,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Let it remain one of the mysteries of the universe.”

“As if we haven’t had enough of those in recent times,” Crowley said, then finished with what might have been a non sequitur. Depending on your train of thought, of course. “Didn’t you mention once that wasabi clears the sinuses?”

Aziraphale immediately brightened. “I happen to know a _lovely_ sushi place down by the theater,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Four stars. How about it, peckish?”

“Always.” Crowley tossed King Louie’s handkerchief to the back seat of the Bentley and retrieved his sunglasses from the glove compartment. However, he paused before starting the car.

“Just checking,” he said, “sushi’s not vegan, right?”

 

End.

 

* * *

 

1 With the sole exception of Sandalphon, who is even banned from choirs in Heaven.

2 Himalayan monasteries formerly used yak butter in their butter lamps, until the yaks protested that clarified butter did not in fact bring clarity to meditation.

3 Smiles and chortles were, however, permitted.

4 At one of the King's many ballet performances, circa 1668, a particularly talented  _haute-contre_ had Aziraphale weeping. Meanwhile, Crowley had reached near apoplexy with laughter, as he was wont to do watching tragedies. Assuming them both moved by his own performance, Louis XIV had given Aziraphale his muslin cloth as a token of his appreciation (and possible fancy). 

5 In Crowley's experience, bamboo was one of the more well-behaved flora of the plant kingdom. As for the Voynich manuscript, some argue that it was Aziraphale himself who had written it during a bout of fascination with the Earth's biosphere in the fifteenth century. 

6 Despite his distaste for the less flattering aspects of human biology and reflexes, Crowley would never kick a person out of a room for them. 

 

 


End file.
